The Fioretti is a literary journal consisting of original submissions and editing from contributing students at Marian University, Indianapolis.

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2011

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THE FIIORETTI
"
AN ANTHOLOGY OF
MARIAN COLLEGE
PROSE AND VERSE
Marian College
Library
Indianapolis. In ~.
VOLUME XXII
NUMBER 2
Indianapolis, Indiana
1963-1964
THE STAFF
Editor-in-Chief
Donna Tatroe, '64
Assistant Editors
Ray E. Brown, '67
Do~ovan Busby, '67
Miriam Kaeser, '66
Evelynn Looney, '66
Mary Ann Werbinski, '66
Illustrators
Maureen Laughlin, '64 for "The Cameo"
Peggy Mader, '65, for "Loneliness Is a Barren Tree"
. t.
~;, .- s .. '
P
L
. C'1
CONTENTS
ESSAYS
The Memory of John Moore 6
The Chair 12
The Divine Allegory 14
I Saw God's Valley 28
FICTION
Walking Through Paradise
The Cameo
22
30
POETRY
Loneliness Is a Barren Tree 4
Life 11
Miami, Florida 11
"But My Dear ... !" 13
Yesterday and Tomorrow 19
Lost and Found 20
Portra it of a Love 25
Indecisions 26
The Father of My Brothers 29
Karen Angela Cox
James Fehlinger
Tom Widner
Sheldon G. Houston
Don na T atroe
Becky Brunson
Nora Fitzpatrick
Evelynn Looney
Evelynn Looney
Regina Hyatt
Edward Dhondt
Judy Swan
Ci ndy Stephenson
Theresa Meyer
Miriam Kaeser
4
Loneliness is a barren tree.
\tVhose leaves have fallen in the path of winter.
Who.se arms stretch out to the shortening hours of the sun
begging, humbly, for a few short hours of life.
A tree that cries in the bleak winter morning
for the glory of the summer day.
A memory that seems an illusion.
A hope that this bright memory will live again.
So like us.
Loneliness is a barren tree.
Who closes it~ heart to the knowledge
that the beauties of a warm summer will return.
vVho enjoys the misery of its self-imposed suffering.
Enjoying its cold barren beauty
yet unsatisfied even with this.
\1\1 aitingfor the warmth
for the happiness of summer.
Loneliness is a barren tree.
NORA FITZPATRICK) '65
5
Remember the rag m an ?
\ l\1hen I was a very little girl,
every alley had one. :He'd
usually make his appearance
once or twice a week. He would
be driving down our alley be­hind
a broken-down nag of a
horse, which pulled one of
those rattle-trap buckboard af­fairs
with squeaking wooden
wheels. He sat up front on a
board, and the rest of the
wagon was piled with old box
springs, stoves, broken chairs,
rags, mattresses, rugs, papers,
toilet seats, and other things
unrecognizable.
I lived with my grandmother
then. She had a big, brown
house on Berwick A venue. At
the time, I considered the hOLlse
and the garden mine because
l' lived there and because I
liked it. This was, to my four­year-
old manner of thinking,
undeniable proof of ownership.
I guess at that age, the whole
world was mine.
My ragman's name was John
Moore; and he had a club foot ,
a fact which I found both in­triguing
and terrifying. I could
usually hear him coming before
I could see him, for his cry
could be heard for blocks. He'd
come down the alley in his
battered wagon calling, "Any
old rags, old clothes, old iron!"
6
7Ae
KAHEN A NGELA Cox) '66
111 a sing-song way; and with
the rhythm of his horse's
hooves and the clanking of the
bedsprings, buckets, boxes, bas­kets,
and other contents of the
wagon and the creaking of its
broken wheels, a small child
could not help but feel a sense
of excitement, listening for
him until he appeared far down
at the other end of the alley. I
used to run and climb up all
the back gate to watch for him.
vVhen he was two or three
houses away, I 'd retreat to the
back steps and watch from a
safer distance. He wasn't very
clean. In fact , I was forbidden
to speak to him. He smelled of
vvhiskey, mildew, horse manure,
sweat, and k e r 0 sen e. His
clothes were torn, and he wore
no socks even on the coldest
mornings. His shoes were worn
right through. He wore a
ragged shirt, once white, and a
pair of ragged, greasy, paint­splattered
overalls, held up on
the side by a large safety pin.
I used to wonder what he
would do if his one suspender
would break. He was unshaven
and his skin was swarthy and
weather-beaten. I envied him.
F irst of all, John Moore was
dirty. He had no grandmother
to tell him to wash his neck or
clean under his fingernai ls. My
First Prize - Essay Division
7
grandmother didn't believe in
children getting dirty. Secondly,
John Moore chewed tobacco
with his mouth open, revealing
a gold tooth on the right side
of his mouth. I was told that
I could have a gold tooth if I
kept my tongue out of the
space where my first baby tooth
came out. It never worked.
The horse could have be­longed
to no one else. It was a
sway-backed nag, ageless as
John himself. It was brown
with a white streak on its fore ­head
and very ill-groomed. Its
eyes were blood-shot just like
John's. I guessed it was a "girl
horse" because it wore a lady's
hat exactly like one my grand­mother
had once had. J olm had
cut holes in it for the horse's
e~rs and it 'fitted perfectly.
John's hat was grey and non­descript.
He and the horse wore
their hats all year 'round, even
in the summer.
I thought John Moore and
his horse were two of the most
fascinating things in my small
world. On Tuesdays and Fri ­days
no one could induce me
to leave the vicinity of the back
yard until J olm and his horse
had passed. He never spoke to
me, but when I waved (on rare
occasions when I was sure my
grandmother wasn't watching)
he'd sometimes look at me with
8
a rather blank stare and some­thing
that resembled a smile
through yellow teeth, plus the
gold one mentioned earlier.
Sometimes he even spit a stream
of tobacco juice as he went by;
and one time he stopped and
tied on his horse's nose bag, but
these occasions were rare. Most
of the time he just clattered and
clopped by our back gate. That
was the extent of our contact.
It was enough. I considered
John Moore my friend. He was
my friend because he enchant­ed,
delighted, and fascinated
me ; he was a mystery, and to
a four-year-old. that made him
a character very personal and
very dear. Most of all, he was
so much a part of my young
life. I couldn't imagine a Tues­day
or a Friday morning with­out
the sound of his horse and
wagon; and the cry of "Any
old rags, old clothes, old iron"
was as much a part of me as
my playmates, the flowers in
my grandmother's garden, or
the house in which I lived. Like
the rest of the things in my
small world, John Moore was
mine. In addition to being a
part of my physical world, he
was a part of my world of
dreams and play. I used to think
how wonderful it would be to
sit up high on the board of the
battered wagon and do nothing
all day but ride behind the
horse and sing in the streets. I
never questioned where John
came from or where he went
after his voice and the sound
of the wagon faded somewhere
at the other end of the alley,
but I was sure it was interesting
and longed to be part of it. Of
course, I knew that my wish
would never be realized, since
any association with him was
forbidden. This made the whole
idea more fascinating, together
with the fact that I was deathly
afraid of him. Sound unreason­able?
Perhaps; but when we
are children, we see the sensi­bilities
that lie beyond reason.
vVhen we are adults, we see
only the reasonable and govern
ourselves accord}ngly.
The fact that John Moore
occupied such a position of
high esteem in my young mind
didn't occur to my grand­mother.
I f it did, I never knew
of it. In fact, John Moore was
one of the many parts of my
ex istence from which grown­ups
were entirely excluded. To
my grandmother, John Moore
"vas merely a dirty, unintelli­gent,
alcoholic old junk man. I
doubt that she ever looked at
him closely enough to knmv
what he really looked like. She
only knew the obvious-smelled
the obvious, and told me to
9
stay away from him. She was
a typical adult.
One Tuesday, during the
summer I was six, John didn't
come. It was one of those days
at the end of the summer when
children are hot and restless
and have run out of mischief to
get into. I was sitting on the
back steps waiting for John
and reading. I was very proud
of my reading. I liked to have
people see me reading, especial­ly
third grade books. I wanted
John Moore to see me reading
because this was the first third
grade book that I could read
all the way through all by my­self.
I wouldn't have to ex­plain
this to John. He would
just look at me and know. But
he didn't come. All that day
and all the following Friday I
listened for the ragman's cry
and the sound of the horse and
wagon. He never came again.
I finally heard my mother teli
my grandmother that he was
found dead in the street behind
a tavern. I didn't cry. I made a
bouquet of the violets and dan­delions
that grew by the back
fence and put it next to the
trash burner in the alley. This
was the nearest thing to a rea I
graveside vi sit I could manage.
The only time they ever could
have guessed how I felt was
when I mentioned him in my
prayers at night. I thought it
was only proper. This amused
them immensely. They were
typical adults.
Another ragman came down
the alley the following Tues­day.
He had no club foot, no
gold tooth, and was much
younger than John Moore. His
cry wasn't the same as John's.
I lost interest. He just didn't
belong in my world. Later my
world changed in other ways,
many of which I didn't like.
They say that the change from
childhood to adolescence and
into full-fledged adulthood in­cludes
the happiest years of a
person's life. This isn't true. It
is painful. vVe have to let go
of so many of the things we
love in order to make the tran­sition;
and somehow, the things
we lose are sometimes of more
value than the new stature we
acquire. That is the sad part
of growing up. So many things
come between the eyes of ma­turity
and the eyes of child­hood.
vVe lose the world of
make-believe and are forced to
enter the world of grim, sensi­ble
reality: the world of re­sponsibility,
ulcers, and inse­curity.
V.,Te become blind too
easily to our once real child's
world. vVe forget too easily. It
must be so.
Today, the ragman no longer
10
makes his rounds and his cry
is gone from the alley. My
grandmother lives on the same
street in the same house as
when I was a child. She even
has the same flowers in her
garden. Although I visit her
often, I know that the house
is hers, not mine, even though
I may come and go as I please.
The world of the back yard
and the garden has lost its
magic, except in the world of
memory. My imagination will
never be as vivid as that of the
four-year-old girl with yellow
pig-tails who climbed upon the
back gate. She is gone with
her ragged "friend" and his
horse into the past, never to
return. But still, when I sit
alone on a summer day in a
certain place in the back yard.
when the sun is warm on my
face and I can smell the flowers
in the garden, if I close my
eyes and listen very closely,
and try to remember, I can al­most
hear a familiar sound ...
"Any old rags, old clothes,
old iron!"
vVhen I stop listening for
this sound, I will have become
a typical adult. It hasn't hap­pened
yet. I hope it never will.
In a small way, John Moore is
still a very important part of
my life.
life
Life is a sculptor,
Love, his tool,
The heart, the stone
"\Thereon's inscribed:
"Fool."
Miami, Florida
I hate the crowds
I hate the lights
I hate the mob
I hate the fights
I hate the clubs
[ hate the drinks
I hate the bars
I hate the minks
I wish that I were far away
Or that I'd never met you, love
I used to sleep and dream at night
And never wake and scream at love
EVELYNN LOONEY) '66
11
the chair
the king of her heart sat on his royal
throne upon his head he wore his cold
metal crown the imperial manacles were
fastened tightly to his strong arms his
straining veins shown forth his leather
strapped breastplate pulled tautly against
his herculean chest exposing the well knit
muscular physique of a greek god around h15
sturdy calves were undecorative nylon straps
all the armor needed for battle placed over
his royal vestments of light gray jeans all
seen by a murky green light in ceiling above
a sob moved the painful silence a cry from
his grief-torn mother the sole sound in the
.hallowed throne room his majestic reign
lasted two and a half minutes his stiff
corpse rules the silence.
JAMES FEHLINGERJ '65
12
"l?
v~ut m'l :J)ear ... /"
Pushed and pulled, shoved and carried,
Swept along, persuaded and cajoled,
Prodded and threatened, advised and told­Who
could balk? Who could be so bold?
Afraid and reluctant to refuse this scheme,
Love was slain in flight
"But my dear, it's the
ONLY thing to do!"
But who am I? Where am I going?
Never mind that--it's nearly time to go.
I'd like to stop and wait-but THEY say no .
. Don't waste time on foolish contemplation,
You'll never get ahead in life that way.
"No, no" I cried--but they always say ...
"But my dear, it's the
ONLY thing to do!"
They have succeeded, complete is the task,
A majority of one was just too much to ask.
Forced into the mold, too crushed to despair,
"\Vho am I? \\Tho am I ?" is lost in the air.
REGINA HYATT, '66
13
i I
",
7Ae
TOM \ iVIDNER) '64
1
The world of man is a house
built by a divine carpenter. This
finest of worlds was fashioned
from the best wood with the
finest tools. The craftsmanship
was perfect. No other house
had ever excelled or would ever
excell the magnificence of this
one.
So the carpenter, after seven
months of labor, sat back to
admire his artistry. Every de­tail
glorified his skill. Now all
the house needed \\'Tas for some-
'one to live in it.
15
It was not long after the
completion of the house that
the carpenter rented it to a
young couple just beginning
life. They were very happy
with their new home and the
carpenter was very happy with
his new tenants.
Sometime later the builder
came to visit the young couple,
for he had rented the house to
them with the stipulation that
he might occasionally visit them
in order that he too might en­joy
the house. It must be said
that the builder was never ob­noxious
in this respect. He had
never interrupted their lives.
He had never interfered in
their private affairs. He merely
wanted it made clear that this
house was his and the couple
was only renting it. But the
young couple tired of the build­er's
visits and this time they
pretended not to be at home.
Needless to say, this act of
indifference made the builder
quite angry. He became so
angry, in fact, that he saw to
it that the house was torn down.
The couple quickly realized
their injustice to the builder and
they set out to rebuild the
house. The builder had per­mitted
them to retain use of the
house but now they were on
their own. Where before the
builder had given them gi fts
whenever he visited them, now
he· made them need his help
to the extent of begging for it.
The house which the couple re­constructed
was ugly. The cou­pie
had to try to return it to
its former beauty.
Through the years that
passed the couple found it in­creasingly
difficult to manage
the house properly. They had
children now and the children
were everywhere. So the build­er
decided to send his son, like­wise
a skilled carpenter, to help
the couple set the house in or­der.
16
Unfortunately, the couple re­j
ected the son. They were much
too proud to admit that they
needed help. In no way did the
son insult the couple when he
offered his aid. The couple did
not realize that this was the
son even though the builder
had told them that he would
send someone to help them.
Though he kept insisting on
glvmg help, the son was
thrown from the house and
kicked in the head a few times
by the couple and their chil­dren.
The wrath of the builder "vas
great indeed. But this time he
decided that rather than punish
the couple he would continue
to attempt to give them aid. So
this time the builder sent a
governess, for the couple had
died and their children were
all alone.
In the beginning the gover­ness
was a most wise person.
She brought the children great
happiness because they realized
from the first that she was
there to help them. But it was
not long before the governess
forgot herself and took her
position much too lightly. In
time the children became her
slaves. She became very strict
with them and very loose in
her own affairs.
It was not long before the
children became aware of the
laxity of the governess. vVhen
she neglected the care of the
children, some of them left.
Realizing what was happening
the governess forgot that her
own faults were the cause and
accused the children of their
guilt. It was many years before
she began to realize her own
guilt in the loss of the chil­dren.
II
The soul of man is a very
large room house with elegant
furniture. There are no doors
and no windows. But when the
soul is filled with sanctifying
grace, it is inundated with a
bright light which floods the
room and occupies every corner
throughout. When the soul is
filled with sin, the room is a
17
vVhen the governess realized
her own faults, she began to
recall that the builder would
again be coming to visit. It
would not do for him to find
some of the children lost, for
the builder was really the father
of the children. He had built
the house. He had given it to
the couple. The governess be­gan
to clean her house--the
house which was given to her
to protect.
void-a paradox perhaps-but
the room becomes an empty
space which seems colorless to
the eye because there is no
light emitted from within it.
It is blackness.
The room is actually a house
which has but one room. This
room is the only room in the
house. This room is the house.
Inside the room a man lies
on a bed wrestling with the
body of a woman. Though the
room is in view of the entire
universe, it cannot be seen by
anyone for it lies immersed
within the blackness of night,
of death, of sm. But the two The soul is aware of its damna­bodies
remain unaware of the tion and the sound of the man's
blackness and are conscious
only of each other. With the
union of their bodies and the
pleasure experienced therefrom,
the room is filled with a red
light which flows from their
flesh. Their pleasure is illegal.
And every object in the room is
dyed scarlet as the color glows
more intensely.
The pleasure passes. The
man on the bed is alone. Slowly
he becomes aware of the min­gling
of the scarlet with the
black. The light seems to glow
an inky red. It shoots through
the man's body and brings pain
to the very organs which had
brought him pleasure. His en­tire
body is wracked with pain.
An9 the soul suffers from the
burden of the struggle.
The pain is unbearable. The
light increases in its intensity
and tortures every part of the
man;s body. From his pores
ooze thick beads of pale yellow
sweat. He screams in agony.
18
screams create chaos in the
house. Old and worn, the house
cracks in a few more places.
Earlier cracks, produced by the
pleasure and the pain of other
times, are intensified and ex­pand.
The walls vibrate with
the blows of the man pounding
for help and forgiveness. But
his strength wanes. A continual
abuse of his body diminishes
the intensity of his plea. The
pounding becomes faint.
Yet once more the white
light floods the room. Once
more its freshness brings re­lief
to the man. Once more he
continues to go his · way. And
once more he forgets his debt.
But forgiveness without retri­bution
has come once too often.
The walls of the room suddenly
collapse and the house crum­bles
around the man whose
agonizing screams reach a pitch
far above the range of the
human ear-and they never
cease.
1
,
J
1
)
Yesterday
and
Tomorrow
Like a stretching monster long confined
The mushroom cloud rose up to its full height
To shake a defiant fist in the face of God.
Love was slain in flight
The hearts from which it sprang reduced to ash.
Hope died with innocence that day
On speechless tongues perfecting praise .
. ' Laughter had no time to become hysteria
Nor sin repentance in the rush of souls to eternity.
Flames of despair came to lick the flayed city
While far off in groves of structural steel
J ezabe1 bowed low before green paper idols.
EDWARD DHONDT, '65
19
Lost
and Found
Under rocks and over rainbows,
\tVhere the winding, bubbling brook flows,
I searched.
First Prize - Poetry Division
20
Inside books and outside windows,
In the trees where winter's wind blows,
I searched.
In wind song,
dove song,
sing song,
. In sunrise,
love song;
moon beam,
trout stream,
day dream,
water's gleam,
I searched .
In babies' cries,
In stormy skies,
In lovers' sighs;
Then one day
In your eyes
I found ... me.
21
JUDY SWAN) '66
WALKING
DONNA TATROE) '64
22
through
PARADISE
"vValking through paradise
isn't so great. It's probably full
of big muddy swamps. "\iVell,
now there is an intelligent
thought" mused Stan. He had
been sitting for hours, his eyes
fixed on a spider who was busi­ly
constructing a web outside
his window. He wheeled him­self
around quickly, disgusted
with the disconnected thoughts
which had bee n running
through his mind.
"Well done, ole boy" he
thought. "Y ou handle that
wheelchair like a pro. Like a
pro?" Stan laughed out loud.
"But then there really isn't any­thing
you can't do when you
set your mind to it. Sure thing.
Big Stan the football man."
That had become a permanent
title since some overzealous
sports writer had done a fea­ture
on him for the school pa­per.
"Big man all right-presi­dent
of the class, honor stu­dent,
athlete-People sure used
to. envy you, didn't they, ole
boy?"
Tiring of self-pity, Stan
laughed at himself again and
wheeled his chair out into the
corridor. The white walls and
antiseptic odor did not permit
him for ' a minute to forget
where he was.
"Hi, Stan." "How are ya,
kid ?" Orderlies and nurses
nodded greetings as he navi­gated
himself toward the sun
deck. He was known and liked
by everyone in the hospitaL
"Boy, what a master of diplo-
23
macy am I " he thought. "Good
natured ole Stan. Ha! I could
fool the world."
"Hi ya, Kid" a loud saluta­tion
greeted him as he turned
onto the sun deck.
"Hello, Mr. Billington, nice
day isn't it?" Stan offered.
Billington was a rather cor­pulent
old man who was com­pletely
content to spend half of
each year in the hospital with
diseases so rare that the doctors
could sometimes not diagnose
them. He seemed pleased with
his latest siege of gastrointest­inal
Epicureanism, which one
of the nurses had told Stan ,vas
gas pains, and prided himself
on describing quite vividly all
his symptoms.
"When do you get the re­sults
of the operation?" asked
Billington looking for a lead
into one of his hypochondrial
discourses.
"This afternoon" replied
Stan. "My mother and the doc­tor
will be here soon."
"Speaking of doctors-" be­gan
Billington. "Sorry, Sir"
interrupted Stan, "but it's
about time for my appoint­n1ent."
Stan wheeled himself from
the glass room relieved that he
had been spared another after­noon
of hospital conversation
and returned to the corridor
where he smiled and spoke just
as congenially as before.
When he entered his room
Stan found his mother waiting
for him. "Hello, baby" she
gushed and kissed him hur­riedly
on the forehead. "Hello,
mom" Stan said. "Have you
seen Doctor Graflin ?" "Yes,
dear" she replied. "I passed
him in the hall and he's on his
way to see you."
Stan examined his mother's
face and found that she was
wearing her "Thy ,NiH Be
Done" expression. She had
become quite philosophical and
religious toward him since the
accident and Stan found this
rather disgusting.
A short bal~ing white clad
figure entered the room and
moved toward them. "Hello,
doctor" his mother said strain­ing
her scrobiculate face into
a hal f· smile.
Stan studied Doctor Graflin .
"This is going to be short and
to the point" Stan thought.
"Doc looks like he wrote the
Hippocratic oath-he's not one
to mince words."
"Well, my boy, you're looking
well today" the doctor said as
he slid into a chair beside Stan.
"Thanks, Doc, but I guess
you know what I'm waiting to
hear" said Stan wishing to be
24
spared any preliminary chit­chat.
"Stan" the doctor began,
"we did a complete exploratory
operation on the lumbar plexus
and found that your spinal cord
has been severely damaged."
"Can it be fixed?" questioned
Stan.
"Well, Stan" the doctor
continued, "the nervous system
is a very delicate part of the
body. When tissues are de­stroyed
it is highly unlikely that
they will regenerate sufficiently
to restore complf'te function."
"Y ou mean I'll never walk
again" said Sian and then he
cynically mused that his state­ment
had sounded like a lead
into a popular song.
The doctor nodded slowly.
Stan heard his mother choke
back a sob and he heard the
tinkle as she clutched at the
jewelry around her neck. "0
God" Stan thought, "any min­ute
she's going to fall on her
knees and start beating her
breast."
She crossed the room slowly
and cradled his head in her
arms. "Don't worry, my baby"
she said, "some day you will
walk through paradise."
",N alking through paradise
isn't so great" Stan replied.
"it's probably full of big mud­dy
swamps."
portrait
of a
LOVE
Footprints
Sunk
. Into the dust,
All alone
And still,
Trace a path
Of hope
To a Cross
Upon a Hill,
And they
Portray
A slip,
A fall,
And Blood and Love and Will.
CINDY STEPHENSON, S.N.
25
INDECISIONS
The foghorn's low plaintive voice
calls to me from out the fog, and
I yearn to answer it, to flee
from my prison and fly for
places unknown.
26
A sharp wind swirls the leaves
at my feet and sets them sailing
far out over the waves, and
again I long to follow them into
the misty land of my dreams.
Wedges of Canada geese beckon
me with their wings and cry as
they pass, Come away,
don't delay,
fly today-
And I reach out to them, and
would stay them with my hand,
but something holds me back
something that hints of ties,
of fetters, of uncertainty
and uneasiness, and my own
perverse will.
THERESA MEYER, '64
27
I saw God's valley
SHELDON G. HOUSTON) '65
The panoramic view before me was magnificent. The oblique
valley walls were enveloped in color. Beech, poplar, spruce, maple,
and pine had united their manifold autumn hues into a spectacular
natural mural. Millions of leaves, victims of frost-bite, mani­fested
the wondrous works of God. I could almost see an invisible
br~sh splotching' red and purple here-dabbing yellow and brown
there; and, as an afterthought, dripping mandarin dye over the
surface of the entire canvas to lend a fiery brilliance to nature's
masterpiece.
In the valley bottom, a lazy little stream flowed under a
covered bridge, past an old gristmill, now inoperative, through
a field of corn stubble, and disappeared into a forest of knotty
pine. A few houses, nearly shacks, against a backdrop of dilapi­dated
out-buildings and log fences, reminded me of the frustra­tion
and love-the absurdity and beauty of life. Except for the
intermittent chirping of birds, all was still. Nature had done a
masterful job.
God? I didn't see Him; but I !?now He was there.
28
He built them a home of happiness and trimmed it
in shades of love.
He raised them in the dignity of man and the glory
of work well done.
He fed them laughter and knowledge of scarlet sunsets.
He taught t~1em to listen to whispering winds and to
face a moody nature's tantrums .
. He taught them that ebony nights possess stars, that mud
cannot suppress the spring, that power in the hands
of love does no harm.
He taught them to fear only what would destroy love,
for life without love is hell.
He made them heirs to the noble forest and all that is
goodness and strength.
And he did no less for me.
MIRIAM KAESER) '66
29
THE CAMEO
BECKY BRUNSON, '66
30
Belinda peered at the mo­tionless
campus. Her elbows
rested on the cool marble win­dow
sill. She solemnly sur­veyed
the awakening landscape.
The lake, nestled between the
budding maple and oak groves.
caught the slivers of reddish
sunlight. vVhy was it so calm,
so haunting and still?
A shy slice of sun stole
through the partially-opened
blind. It caressed the minutely­sculptured
profile, accenting the
rose stone of the background.
The attached golden band
awoke, setting free a sparkle
of multi-colored threads. Be­linda
Mallory gazed fondly at
the cameo. It was so much a
part of her hand, so integral,
that she felt herself awaken as
the delicate features glistened.
That nap, she realized, had
taken her far into the after­noon.
The sun was slipping into
the clustered trees adjoining
Shamrock's campus. The Baby
Ben on the desk told her she
must move. It was almost six,
which explained the staid at­mosphere.
Everyone was in the
cafeteria eating supper, or
waItIng impatiently for the
weekly allotment of chicken.
"So what" she muttered.
"It's really not worth the ef­fort,
this waiting, eating, wait-
31
ing cycle." Belinda didn't really
dislike food, but she detested
waiting. The endless cafeteria
line annoyed her, and seldom­prompt
dates antagonized her.
"If time would just move.
Things go so slowly. I spend
my life waiting. I wait in line
for buses, food and bank de­posits.
vVhy can't things be,
now?"
Her mind raced its patterned
track of discontent. She knew
that her psychology book la­belled
it, "emotional imma­turity."
Realizing the fallacy,
she constantly fought it, brac­ing
herself to face the life that
somehow wouldn't come,
Pulling the plastic cap over
her strawberry hair, she flipped
the pony tail over her head. She
grabbed a towel from the closet
shelf. Lindy smiled thought­fully
as she clutched the half­drained
bottle of bath oil.
"Mark likes the smell of this
stuff" she mused, "and his
opinion somehow counts."
Lindy was dressed on time,
but Mark was overdue as
usual. She fussed impatiently
with her shoulder-length bob,
and meticulously secured the
strand wisping over her fore­head.
Inspecting her make-up,
she frowned to note that her
eyes appeared too gray when
she wore this navy blue suit.
The pale cheeks and delicately
up-turned nose twitched im­patiently.
She picked up the
novel she had been trying to
finish all week, but her mind
reviewed the letter Mark had
written from State U. a few
days ago. It was his reply to
the summer plans she had de­scribed
so jubilantly.
She recalled her amazement
to learn he disapproved of her
fantastic plans to work and
study that summer and the
next three semesters at Colo­rado
State. Mark knew how
long Lindy had dreamt of
working on a paper. He had
been the sports editor of the
high school weekly when she
was editor - iri - chief. Why
didn't he share her joy at the
offer to become an apprentice,
with a guarantee of training
and long-range employment?
Lindy stood up and adjusted
the red scarf at her neck with
determination. Here was her
chance to strike out into life,
she reasoned, and nothing, not
even Mark Hanson's objection,
would alter the decision.
* * *
Later that evening after
leaving the theater, Mark and
Lindy strolled across the tree­lined
mall. Lindy caught her-self
wondering again. Mark
nudged her elbow gently. "Hey
there, Lindy, it's just a movie.
Tony isn't really dead. You
know, I read MGM's already
cast him in another film , a
sequel to this one."
Lindy grinned up at him,
and tugged at a lilac bush that
drooped over the path, heavy
with its fragrant burden. She
pulled off a sprig of half­opened
blossoms. "It's not the
show, Mark. I liked it, even the
sobby ending. I 'm just think-m.
g. "
"I figured as much. vVhat's
on your mind?"
"Can't tell you yet, Mark.
It's too confusing. I wish I
were like this lilac, then I' cl
know when to bloom and
wouldn't mind waiting to come
alive." Lindy giggled abruptly,
fixing the lilac behind her ear.
"Tell me, Mark, wouldn't I
make a lovely lilac bush?"
"Cut it out, yon si lly. Y on
worry me, with your strange
ideas and your deep, pondering
moods. You're so impatient for
life as you see it to come, that
you don't live today."
Mark's getting perturbed,
1'd better cut it off, thought
Lindy.
"\"here'd we park the car?
I forget. Is that it across the
32·
street?" Lindy chatted on gaily
as they crossed the street and
climbed into the red Buick She
kept up the chatter even after
they reached the drive-in, paus­ing
only to sip her root beer.
"Just think, Mark, next week
i~, Easter vacation, and I'm go­ing
to the farm. Then there's
only five weeks of school be­fore
summer vacation!"
"What about that appren­ticeship?
Are you still thinking
about it?" Mark inquired.
"Yes, I've decided to go
ahead and accept, then I 'll be
set for the job when it counts."
"Lindy" Mark began, "that
means you won't be home this
summer. You won't even be
near the farm. Things won't
be the same this year."
"N 0, Mark, things already
aten't the same. I'm getting old
enough to be on my own, and
this . is the opportunity I've
worked and waited for all
these months. This IS my
chance at life."
"You and your ideas about
life bounding up to you in one
giant step. I won't push the
issue, though." They had
reached the dorm. "I'll see you
F riday night? I'm pitching a
baseball game that afternoon at
St. John's. I'll drive home
from there." Mark ki ssed her
gently at the door and was off.
Lindy went promptly to bed,
but not to sleep. As she gazed
at the last quarter of the moon
that almost slipped completely
behind the tall spruce beside
her window, her mind scanned
the years she and Mark had
been friends. The successive
summers they had passed on
their farms had enkindled a
rich friendship. It was based
on ex periences and understand­ing,
a relationship Lindy had
grown to appreciate more after
her mother had died when she
was fourteen . Contentment en­veloped
her as she dozed,
dri fted and dreamt.
Lindy's father didn't expect
her to go home for the spring
break from classes. She always
retreated to Medford and her
grandfather Jensen's farm for
the vacations. Since her fa­ther's
business detained him in
Chicago, the girl always sought
the companionship of her
grandfather. Mr. Jensen re­marked
repeatedly to Lindy's
father how much his grand­daughter
was like his wife who
had died when Lindy's mother
was born. Lin's cameo had been
Mr. J ens en 's engagement
pledge to his beloved, and her
image lived in the stone. It
was Lindy's profile, too, on the
33
stone, and her own mother's
death had shifted it unques­tionably
to her finger.
Easter vacation finally came
and true to his word, Mark
called Friday night. Eager to
learn of their news, Grandfa­ther
Jensen pressed continuous
queries at the couple as they
lounged on the screened porch.
He questioned Mark, anxious
for his young friend to air his
views on Lin's summer plans.
Having detected Mark's dis­pleasure,
Mr. Jensen mildly
commented, "Mark, you and I
must remember that it is
Lindy's life and efforts. N ei­ther
of us may relish this plan
of hers, but both of us realize
how much immediate action and
fruits mean to her restless
spirit. "
Turning to Lindy, he puffed
heartily on the pipe forbidden
by his heart doctor and said
quietly, "Lin, your grand­mother
regarded life as you
do. It took a long summer of
toil and a winter of hardship
on that farm for her to ac­quire
patience. But she was a
remarkable woman with a vi­vacious
spirit. Someday you'll
... yes, someday that farm \'Vill
do the same for you."
That night it stormed, as it
always did on Good Friday,
and Saturday dawned warm
and sunny. Lindy and Grand­father
rode out to the farm
and found the - calf, born
Thursday night, chilling with
pneumonia. All morning they
nursed it. Mr. Jensen carried
it gingerly to the barn and
bedded it down after injecting
a dose of penicillin into its
squirming flank. "It'll pull
through okay, Lindy. That
little fella will outlive me, you
know."
They devoured the picnic
lunch under the elm in the bot­tom
field that was drained off
enough for sowing that after­noon.
"Lindy" Grandfather
began, "this tree will fall soon.
See, the heartwood is all rotted
out, a sign that it's aging. It's
, old, like me. My dad sent me
to it for switches when I mis­behaved,
and I buried my first
pony under it. The night I had
that attack last winter half of
it fell in a blizzard. Yes, our
lives have run parallel for sixty
years now. "
"Gramps, you' re thinking
too much lately. You're work­ing
too hard, too. I'm here for
a week to see that you slow
down. Now lean against your
elm and rest while I get the
planting started." Lindy jump­ed
to her feet and guided the
34
ancient tractor down the field
before he could protest.
Later that evening in town
a warning roll of thunder
sounded as they finished the
evening meal. Lindy's mind
raced to the calf. Another chill
would kill it. Her grandfa­ther's
sigh took her to his side.
He was sprawled on the sofa,
eyes closed. "Lindy, that was
a good meal, but I ate too
much. I should go to that calf
and ... "
Lindy cut him off, ,.y ou'll
do nothing of the kind. I'll
check the cal f if you promise
not to move from hpre. vVe
don't need two of you with
pneumonia." She kissed his
closed eyes. "P]pase stay here,
Gramps." She ' pulled on her
bo'ots and slicker. As she
steered the truck along the
bumpy county road to the farm
a light drizzle fell.
Lindy checked the calf and
threw more straw into the stall.
She covered the tiny sleeping
form with the ragged poncho
that hung in the barn for such
cases, and slid the door closed.
She had to see something else
before returning to town. The
truck bounced along the lane
leading to the bottom field they
had sown that day.
The damp fields smelt warm,
35
alive. Lindy sensed the abund­ant
life. The union of the earth­worm's
trail and the decompos­ing
cornstalks released a con­tented
vapor as they welcomed
the moisture. The planted seed
awaited the spring rain. The
walnut grove along the creek
blackened sharply as the hori­zon
grew bright and then
dimmed. The roar that fol­lowed
sounded a toll for the an­cient
elm as it dropped mass­ively
across the field. As Lindy
leaped into the chilled dryness
of the truck, a second bolt of
light revealed the knowing and
somber face on the cameo.
Lindy steered the resisting
truck back up the hill and
across the rutted pasture. She
spotted the familiar red Buick
parked near the barn. In the
dim light she detected Mark as
he bolted out and swung the
wide gate open. Having twisted
the wires that secured it, he
climbed into the truck cab.
"Lindy ... " he began.
"I know, Mark" she finished
quietly, "the elm just fell too."
Three days later it stormed
again, stopping only minutes
before the funeral. Leaving the
casket in the charge of the
caretakers at the little hill-top
cemetery, Lindy declined the
return ride to town. "No" she
, " {;/ " II(> ~,
Marian College
Library t ·
Indianapolis. In ~.
insisted to her father. "I want
to stay and check the cattle
and give that cal f another shot.
I 'll drive the truck in before
supper."
If he thought it unwise to
leave her there alone, he held
his tongue. Mr. Mallory shook
his head mutely as Lindy
kicked off her heels and stepped
into the boots she pulled out of
the car trunk. Her trembling
fingers jerked the unyielding
zipper on the left foot. The
rusty picket gate creaked as
Lindy slipped through and
crossed the road.
Mark frowned as he noted
the girl's destination. His sis­ter
caught his sleeve as he
started after her. "Take us
home· and then come back,
Mark. She needs a few mo­ments
to herself right now."
After the short trip into
town Mark left the car at the
edge of the maple grove bor­dering
the cornfield. It had been
a good rain, he reasoned as his
shoes became weighted with
mud. The road leading from
the barn had a few new ruts,
but he noted the soil in the bot­tom
fields was well saturated.
He visualized the corn sprouts
that would probably be peek­ing
through by the time they
returned to school.
36
He spotted Lindy standing
on the gate leading into the
field. He realized how delicate
she was. Her hair ruffled as a
gust of wind became entangled
in it. The same current swayed
the pleated navy blue skirt
against her legs. Nothing else
moved. She looked like a man­nequin
in a junior high shop.
Lindy turned and stepped
down, aware of the slosh of
Mark's muddy feet behind her.
"Hi" she smiled weakly. "I
was just trying to decide on the
best time to drag off that elm.
N ow would mean resowing
part of the field and later
would leave a hole in the crop
this year. I stand to lose either
way."
"What do you mean by
later? Lindy, this farm isn't
your worry." Mark half scold­ed,
half questioned her.
"Later is this summer, Mark,
while I'm down here working.
Then it will be my worry."
"But what about summer
s2ho01, co-oping ... and your
job ? You can't let that job go
on a spur-of-the-moment de­cision,
Lindy." Mark looked
confused.
"That job,
again.
.. " he began
will wait" finished
Lindy. "It'll have to."